तेरे चेहरे से नज़र नहीं हटती नज़ारे हम क्या देखेंगे तुझे मिलके भी प्यास नहीं घटती नज़ारे हम क्या देखेंगे
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The days Adhiraj and Annahita spent at the Kutir had been a blissful escape. Their afternoons were filled with painting, and the nights were a mix of sensuality and tenderness. Annahita had discovered something new about Adhiraj during this time—he was an incredible painter. Though he had always kept this part of his life private, her infectious curiosity and persistence finally wore him down, and he began teaching her how to paint.
Adhiraj would smile every time she pestered him, her playful demeanor bringing a lightness he hadn’t realized he needed. One sunny afternoon, with golden light streaming through the windows, Annahita sat cross-legged next to Adhiraj, trying to mimic his strokes on the canvas. But her brush slipped, creating an unintended streak of paint, and she sighed dramatically, pouting in frustration.
“It’s not as easy as you make it look,” she complained, glancing at him.
Adhiraj chuckled, dipping his finger into the paint before swiping it across her nose. “Art isn’t about perfection. It’s about expression.”
Annahita gasped, feigning shock, then retaliated by flicking her brush, sending specks of paint splattering onto Adhiraj’s shirt. "Now that’s expression!" she declared, laughing.
With a grin, Adhiraj set down his palette and moved closer to her, his gaze softening as he said, "You’re learning, and that’s what matters." He gently took her hand, guiding it over the canvas, helping her blend the colors. There was something intimate about the way their hands moved together, the gentle rhythm of their strokes bringing a quiet harmony to the room.
When they finished painting, Annahita rested her head on his shoulder, her voice barely a whisper. "I love this. I love how peaceful everything feels when we’re here together." Adhiraj kissed her forehead gently. “So do I.”
After a quiet moment, Annahita asked curiously, "Aapko brushes use karna pasand nahi?" (You don’t like using brushes?)
Adhiraj smiled, his fingers still slightly stained with paint. “Hmm... jo hum apni ungliyon se bana sakte hain vo inn brushes se nahi bana pate.” (Hmm... what I can create with my fingers, brushes can’t achieve.)
Annahita smirked, teasing him. “Hmm, talented pati hain humare.” (Hmm, my husband is quite talented.)
“Kya baat hai? Aaj bohot taarif kar rahi ho tum humari?” (What’s this? You’re praising me a lot today?) Adhiraj asked, raising a brow.
